Impressive Instant
by CuttleMeFish
Summary: Arthur Kirkland's the CEO of a weapons manufacturing company. On his back, he carries so many buckets of blood that it's only natural Death is attracted to him – isn't blood like his favorite cologne? It's too bad Arthur's already into Alfred, the really hot guy next door, whom he seems to keep meeting in the most unusual and unfortunate circumstances, as in near-death experiences.
1. Chapter 1

**Author Note: **Hi, I'm CuttleMeFish and I've returned from a bit of a hiatus (I was hiding out from the summer events). Hmm, I tend to write really weird stuff, and it's not even porn. Just take a look at _Fragments _for proof…? I like to call this, that one fic in which England is Tony Stark, Hungary is Pepper Potts and I guess America is Death.

At least you have to admit an Arms Dealer Courted by Death AU is a little original…? Right? Maybe not… OTL Such are my fails, I fear.

**Warning: **Warnings for mentions of the military-industrial complex, weapons, and lots and lots of Fall Out Boy lyrics and _other _random lyrics. I know the premise sounds serious, but I hope you won't read it in a very serious manner. The story will get weird. You have been warned. Weird as in, dry humor, close encounters with death (pun intended), a little bit of HungaryxEngland thrown in because this is going to get really crackish, and so many more things that come with making America Death personified. Right. =) Hope you enjoy the ride.

**Impressive Instant**

**Part I: Death's Scientific Method**

**Death's Hypothesis**

Death is wandering over arid lands, dark suit all reflecting the sun in the glory of its smooth fabric and lean cuts, so very sharp that the lines shine like daggers.

He has seen the implosion, not in real time, but in the way minutes collide into seconds sending ripples through the air that carry with them sand and memories and tears and screams.

He has waited for Hope to pass through the landscape, and even let her wipe her smooth hand over the heavy-set, thick brows of men and women as they stuttered their last promise to the Earth. He's let Love make his last stops – cry his tears and don his mourning robes before leaving to weave new tapestries with which to drape the lovers and families left alone.

For this alone, no one can say Death is _heartless_. This is not to that say Death is particularly caring, but it's not like caring has ever been an advantage in his line of work. In a way, his is the business of disadvantage. He can't particularly waste resources on unimportant social niceties. But at least, and this he can say with certainty, he is ethical. Even if he can't always conform to formalities, which is most times, at least Death _is _ethical. Moral, on the other hand, he is not.

However, he's at least well-intentioned, because, _really_, if he didn't pick up those souls, they'd just go to waste.

And let no one say Death was a wasteful man! _Or_ lazy; no supernatural being worked more overtime than he did in a single day!

All throughout his journey so far, he's carried his briefcase close to his thigh. He has counted the number of times it's slammed against his leg, all darkly empty and achingly hollow.

He's counted his steps, the sand granules slipping underneath the sole of his shoes, and the run-away hallucinations left behind by humans to wander in search of hope and whim. They're like bruised pink ribbons coiled too tight, waiting to twirl and get lost in light.

Death might not be the best with friendship, but he's definitely friendly. Many times he waves to them – because he can understand their loneliness. So he watches these hallucinations spin in torpid, yellow air, thick and rough like mustard on his tongue. He watches them bargaining their needs, letting no one _too _close, but not straying too far from civilization either. Sometimes he'll even stop to make small-talk with them, rest his head on the lap of water stream. But recently he's been bothered by the rising number of Oases and women in bright, tight red dresses, both of which tend to be _so _rude.

Death has no time or either, rudeness or commonality. He has no time to debate with order, either.

By the time he gets to wander into the field of bodies, he's feuding with numbers. Order is an implosion of chaos under the supervision of heat – typically pale cheeks aflame with anger and too much spit in his mouth. Death has no time to deal with _that _either. So instead of counting, he touches each shoulder before leaning forward and pressing his lips to the cold ones of dead bodies still resisting under the tug of his strength.

He collects souls gently – _before_ stuffing them in small, box-like containers and flat-ironing them with the vigor of his palms. And when he's done, and the souls look like little cards with detailed names and careers and all sorts of nuisances and destinations, he stacks them together neatly in rows until his briefcase is filled to the brim.

This is his job, he thinks. He likes his job.

Maybe. _Sometimes_.

Human bodies, after all, are just shells. The precious gem is the soul. When he frames it like this, he's an ethical extractor, or maybe more like a nutcracker. Too bad he's never tasted nuts.

He's thinking about this, not as liberally, perhaps, as this short narrative makes light. He's thinking about it quite sternly, actually, when, well, a missile comes zooming from the high, very blue sky up above and hits him right on the head. As in _slams_ right into him, splitting him open in two, until he's just slithering shadows, like eels or very thick licorice worms crawling to become one again.

This is all very convenient, actually.

See, Love is always going on and on about love at first sight, how love feels like getting slammed _hard_ to the ground. Death thinks he understands now, if only because he's quite literally in a hole, as close to the ground as anyone can get (because contrary to popular belief, he does not live underground, thanks – he's not a mole person, okay? He lives in a very nice apartment in New York City surrounding by super famous, _hot_ people, actually).

Yeah, Death is not heartless. He's just not the type to fall in love. It's _sort of_ against the rules.

(There's an exit clause somewhere; he's just never cared to read it.)

The very idea that this could be as close as he ever gets to falling in love: it's a big deal.

It also makes a lot of sense.

The missile reads in bright, bright red: Kirkland Enterprises.

Isn't Arthur Kirkland _like_ one of his favorite people ever? – He's his best and most consistent supplier.

Businessmen like Death _love_ their suppliers, which Death had always thought was more an exaggeration or one of those turn-of-phrase human statements he'd never understand.

But now it feels more like _fact_. Getting knocked half-unconscious to the ground, it must mean something, like his equivalent of that stupid man with the giant diaper and tiny wings shooting an arrow at his stomach.

And let it never be said Death didn't participate in market research, or take supernatural superstitions seriously. He's the most thorough man in the field, after all, always working overtime and _what not_.

**Reasons Why Death should pursue Arthur Kirkland**

**Reason #1: Because he's the original Arms Dealer**

_**I am an arms dealer fitting you with weapons in the form of words.**_

_**And I don't really care which side wins, as long as the room keeps singing.**_

_**That's just the business I'm in.**_

Inspiration is like lightning. That's probably the only reason Arthur likes it, because once when he was little, he saw lightning hit an energy post and became mesmerized by the way fire followed the line of light into smoke and darkness. So yeah, it's definitely a good thing he's always liked playing with fire and light and things that go _boom_. In fact, he once put a metal fork in the microwave _on purpose._ He'd always known it'd blow up. He'd just loved the sound. And the way his mother's face showed the ticks of her fast-beating heart in the dance of the freckles on her nose.

Technically, his mother had said this recklessness was, no _is _in his blood. So, it's also a good thing he's not queasy at the first sight of red. Not that he'd ever be a _red_. He's too in love with green for all _that_.

(What is all _that_ again? Arthur's sure he once had to read Marx when he was in college, sometime before he decided he was a genius anyway, so why did he need to study _again_?)

It's all good, though. He respects those that will wear red, either in their brains, in their hearts, or on their chests. They all respect him, too. Right? Or pretend to. People don't mess with the man whose crib was practically an empty missile shell.

(And that's an exaggeration. His mother would've never allowed his father to fashion something so beautiful out of something so crude. His mother had sensibilities. Unfortunately, he probably didn't inherit those.)

To make things simple: Arthur knows war is his business. Death is his legacy. Blood, well, blood is just collateral damage. Some might think this way of thinking is cold-hearted, or _whatever_. Listen: He's just a businessman. _The_ businessman. He does his part for the military-industrial complex. And if anyone thinks the concept of _military_ exists only in the vacuum of ethical judgment, or at the edge of political amorality, well, then they don't understand their society, because part of military involves militancy: Arthur thinks he's never seen a group of people more militant than 21st century Westerners. Himself included.

This isn't to say Arthur doesn't think people are important. He does. He just doesn't pretend he knows the entire world.

No one should pretend they _know_, much less understand, the world.

He knows his family, though.

He owns his blood. Not just the buckets and buckets weighing on his back, but the currents of pumping veins cursing through his body in intricate maps of blue and red.

And he thinks –

His great-grandfather was a weapons developer for the British Government, always looking to push someone a little too far. Unfortunately, he pushed his son too far, as in to another continent, and so it was that Arthur's grandfather ended up a developer of early chemical weapons in the United States during World War I, which only propelled his father to go shooting like a misdirected missile into nuclear and biological weapons during World War II, right to the _very_ brink of science and madness.

By the time life caught up to Arthur, well, he'd just jumped right off the perpetual, familial cliff.

Good thing he'd never been afraid of heights.

Or falling.

**Reason #2: Because he's a Hot Mess – _emphasis _on the _hot_**

_**Oh baby you're a classic like a little black dress.**_

_**You're a faded moon stuck on a little hot mess,**_

_**a little hot mess.**_

"There's a social movement living inside every human being," Arthur says for an interview.

Death thinks that sounds sort of poetic, so he posts it up on his blog, which is surprising only because he never updates it.

Then he finds out someone else said it before Arthur through a comment left behind by some stranger from Sweden. Apparently that doesn't really matter to mainstream media because now that Arthur's said it, it's his quote – full freight.

When the quote gets used in a televised wine ad – modified, of course – Death lifts his beer glass in mock cheers.

Apparently, Arthur doesn't just have television commercials, but an entire franchise, including his own calendar. He also has his own magazine. The calendar sells better than the magazine, though. There's not really a market for rich, ingenious playboys looking to publish bad scone recipes and share weaponry-building tips. However, there are plenty of women and men more than willing to cough up the twenty bucks to get a good look at Arthur's half-naked July spread, which Death begins to think is way _too_ expensive considering there's a couple of free sex videos making rounds on the internet.

Death admits he's very confused as to _why_ he finds all of this so intriguing. Really, it's not a very original story.

Arthur Kirkland is the type of man that hops from hotel to hotel room and travels by private jet as opposed to limousine. He has this habit of falling asleep during hangovers with his face pressed against car windows, aviators slammed close to foggy dark glass with so much pressure it might bend the silver frame. He has this smile, all bright and stunning, like a _right-hook-pow_ that makes people's knees weak.

(Death will confess he doesn't quite understand the statement because his skeleton is more metal than anything else, which means his knees are never quite weak and don't buckle like human knees.

Still, he can totally understand why people are dazzled by Arthur Kirkland.)

He's smooth and charming and he says the right things. To the right people, of course. So Death role plays as an important investor, even dyes his hair black for the occasion, and ends up at a fashionable gala event in which Arthur ends up dancing on a bar top with two supermodels. This happens right after he gets on stage, gives half a speech before stumbling over to the band and playing the guitar, the saxophone, and the violin, not all at once, though.

People don't seem as impressed as Death.

In fact, Arthur seems to be getting quite a bit of bad press. But Death thinks the entire ordeal is completely _badass_. So he approaches Arthur, slowly.

That's what humans do, right? Approach slowly before pouncing? – No, wait, that was lions.

Regardless of whether it was lions or humans that pounced, Death decides by the end of the night that pursuing a relationship with a human could be highly problematic.

They talk and drink and Arthur _can't _seem to stop drinking. With every sip Death takes, Arthur downs a glass. Death just watches, half-concerned and inspired by such a hearty liver (because that had to be a sign of a strong heart, right? Like, a heart that could take lots of shock and heights and maybe explosions).

Unfortunately, Arthur ends up suffering from severe alcohol poisoning, meaning that when Death gets close enough to, well, make a real move, Arthur ends up on the floor, throwing up half his innards on Death's very expensive, rented Westwood suit.

A ruined _classic._

Or, well, two.

**Reason #3: Because he's, uh, Bendy?**

_**We do it in the dark with smiles on our faces.**_

_**We're trapped and well concealed in secret places, whoa.**_

_**We do it in the dark with smiles on our faces.**_

_**We're trapped and well concealed in secret places.**_

However, Death is nothing if _not _resilient.

The following month, Arthur dreams of Death.

In his dreams, it's morning. He knows that it's morning because the sun is skittering over his face, warming his cheeks and pinching at his eyes in a way that makes him roll on his side and tuck his head under a thick burrow of blankets and sheets and a very fluffy pillow. Except that's illogical, so, really, he only knows this because there's a murmur against the dry, sticky skin of his neck that says rough and throaty, "Good morning."

And that's good enough for him, because there are these fingers drawing smooth, gentle circles up and down his throat – forcing his neck to cant just a _touch_ more. He tilts his head in welcome as hot, wet lips press against his own. His breath quickens mildly as his body responds by arching into the touch, twisting around to let his palm fall to his companion's neck, right where he can curl his fingers around the ends of his soft, short hair.

His mind hadn't quite fully caught up to the _dream_ aspect of the scenario, but in Arthur's book sex is always good, so he wriggled into it, whining from the loss of contact when the hard body behind him moved back. He's not awake enough for words, though. Actually, he's not _awake_. So he makes inarticulate sounds and pushes his ass higher up in the air.

"If you keep doing that," his companion groans raggedly, pushing his erection against the soft, sensitive skin of Arthur's lower back. Slowly, he edges downwards, pressing and sliding carefully over the curve of Arthur's ass. "I'm just gonna have to take you again, and then you'll be late for your meeting and I'll be late for my, uh, _meetings_."

"Whatever _they_ pay, I'll double, but you stay and fuck me, golden boy," Arthur groans, climbing up to his knees. There's this delicious itch developing like a hot rash down his back and his thighs, and _everywhere_ he wants those cool fingers drawing lines and circles with the press of thumb pads and maybe the smack of wide palms. He looks over his shoulder, and sees that his companion's shadowy face is spasmed in shock. Dreams, making such irregularities of nature possible, because, really, shadows with faces? "Please."

The response is automatic as his companion jumps onto his back, pushing him forward before pushing inside him. It sends Arthur scrabbling for the headboard, nails digging into the wood.

And then he wakes up with a pillow over his face, which he proceeds to throw away as he tries to recover his breath. Rather bitterly, actually. Because his hard-on is so painful that he has to stay in bed for quite a while, jut assimilating to the fact that his whole body feels like he's been punched in the chest, or smothered to the mattress, like he hasn't been breathing. There's this thump in his brain as his body begins to recover sense, and then he comes to terms with the fact that he almost feels as if someone had peeled off his skin like clothing, stripping him to his bones before reconstructing him whole.

It's such an addicting feeling that he wakes up with a peppery saunter to his step, even bypasses coffee, and tries to remember if he had someone in his bed the night before – because if so, he needs to call them back.

He spends the rest of the day daydreaming in between weapon plans and board meetings.

His fingers ghost over the strange cuts on his skin during lunch, and then he creates a robot.

**Reason #4: Because he's not afraid of Death**

_**I only keep myself this sick in the head because**_

_**I know how the words get you.**_

Arthur Kirkland did not imagine dying would feel quite like _this_. He's surprised to find he's sort of enjoying the whole thing a bit too much. Maybe it's because everything feels like watching someone else – like he can zoom in and zoom out and tell the camera what angle to turn all at once. And there's this song, this one song that plays in a loop in his head, like liquid time melting between his ears before giving way to the faint sound of flickering flames and the smell of skin grated by concrete and glass.

This is beauty, slow and tender and slipping through his fingers, which he can't actually feel anyway.

This is what he will remember, he decides, which is far better than remembering the splinter in his side, because he's pretty sure he's punctured more than a few internal organs with his own ribs. And he's not sure how he knows, actually, so much as he _does _and all humans should know their own bodies, right? – Or at least this he will now believe forever.

That's something, to believe at the end.

"Tell me something, Arthur Kirkland."

He can feel as his world turns on an axis, circular and slow. His mind can't quite catch up to the speed with which the words whispered hot and hard against his ear make him cognizant of the fact that he can't use his mouth, much less his neck. It's the same dawning realization that he's been looking at the ground, not at the sky, blood rushing from the side of his temple in pitter patters to the ground.

That's the music. Well, isn't that something?

"Arthur Kirkland, do you know who I am?"

Everything is very sudden. It's unfamiliar. But this he knows, and then he's surprised, gasping for air with his tongue rolled and his lips open wide.

Oh, well, yes, he'd read about blinding lights and flashes of life snapping shut backwards into nothingness like some weird movie reel being rewinded to the beginning. He does not assimilate death so much with fire and passion and want and lust, and heat between his legs, aching and fiery. He's very sure he recognizes this feeling, like a pit in his belly swirling and swirling until he wants to bend towards the hardness pressed up against him, behind him, which is impossible because he's still staring right at the ground and – oh, oh, he can't feel his back, either.

"Oh you do! _Awesome_! My brother kept telling me that I should totally have someone introduce us because that's the polite way humans do things, but I called bullshit. It's just his way, being so _orderly_. Because he's Order."

The voice is amused, grating in its murmurs. Arthur can almost see, more than feel his own pupils dilating – expanding from green to black as oxygen continues to leave his body, like heavy smacks and punches and, gah, when was the last time he fell off a cliff? It had _nothing_ on being smashed by a car.

"Here's the thing, Arthur Kirkland," the shadow settles over his hair, down the expanse of his body, and Arthur's not sure how because he can't feel it, but he writhes beneath the warmth. "Your weapons have killed a lot of people and sent them to me, you know? – Shh, shh, it's not a condemnation, babe. I'm actually here to apologize. No, don't gasp like that – _seriously_. Hey, hey, don't die yet! I didn't say you could!"

_You fucking bastard. _He thinks as his face falls right into concrete again. _You killed me. You fucking bastard._

The voice above him, behind him, all around him, it talks again. It talks about nonsense. Is this what happens when you die? Your brain just turns to mush? Arthur wonders if his brain is now lining the road, maybe making a neat pathway, though he doubts it, what with all the twisted thoughts in his mind. The voice eases into a more comfortable tone. It's a hug. Can shadows hug?

"I know, I know this isn't the best way to get asked out on a date, but," the voice reverberates in this ripple of taut laughter, "I'm kind of really into you. And I've never really done this before."

Arthur can feel his chest constrict and expand and there's this _want_ so deep in his bones.

"So, here's how it's gonna work, Kirkland. I'm gonna be courting you, which means, well, you're probably gonna be experiencing a lot of moments like _this_, I guess. But don't worry. I'm not actually going to kill you."

_No. Wait. Wait. No._

"No dice, babe. You don't get any say in this," the shadow slithers to the ground beneath him. "Oh, oh, and if after a few dates you want to dump me or whatever – which I doubt, because I'm a great supernatural being, like so much better than all the other stupid ones out there – I promise I won't let you die. Not during _that_ date, anyway. Because that wouldn't be ethical. I know you probably don't put ethical and death in the same sentence, but I totally am. So yeah, that's all I wanted to say.

See you soon, hot stuff."


	2. Chapter 2

**Author Note: **I mentioned this story was going to complicated and insane right? Just repeating it for those that feel they haven't been warned enough. Meet the start of complicated, which involves changing tones and narration styles. We haven't reached insane yet – that will involve squirrels. Comments are loved, of course, and encouraged because they feed Arthur and Death's love, but not mandatory. Oh, right, I am cognizant this story is terrible, honest. So if at any moment you dislike it, feel free to hit the x button. No judgement. I won't even know. :)

**Part II: **This is…

**Chaos' Favorite**

Order is a jealous lover. Like, _really_ jealous, so he keeps a tight rein over Chaos, always trying to be nearby to fix any of Chaos' accidental messes. Except Chaos doesn't have _accidental_ messes. Or at least the accidental part can _always_ beg the question.

This is because Chaos is eternally restless, as in constantly in pain, somewhere in the vicinity of a single flinch to an atomic explosion. And, well, this makes Chaos quite immune to accidents because there's nothing accidental about fate, especially such a dark one. It works, though. The Eternal does not make decisions in haste and, truth be told, Chaos _is_ much better at bouncing off the walls – like a paintball too eager to splatter on white carpet or the fur of a very white posh dog.

(His own choice of words, in fact, except for the posh, maybe.)

_This_ makes Order, then, not just jealous. This makes him overprotective in a way that only a very good kindergarten teacher too afraid of leaving a child with a big pot of paste and very, very shiny glitter could possibly understand.

Maybe that's why when Chaos finds a pianist, whose music soothes some of the constant discomfort shooting holes like hot bullets through his skin, coloring him white all over and inking his eyes red with anger, Order doesn't have the heart to tell Chaos that what he feels isn't _love_, not even a smidgen of it.

Because it _can't_ be love (damn it, why won't anyone listen)!

_It just can't be._ Order tells himself so very carefully, between whispers and forgotten sobs. _It can't be love_.

(And he ensures that Love doesn't tell Chaos, either.)

It isn't _love_, and Order must bite his tongue that it isn't! But Order will be damned if he ever lets Chaos play the part of bully to the pianist's lover. That's _not_ in the rules. None of it is in the rule, but this is the least bit in the rules, and the last thing Order needs is his lover breaking _all _the rules. Order doesn't appreciate visits from the Eternal. He could do without a general check-up and analysis from the higher power's department of external affairs until sometime in the next three millennia, thanks.

So he stays close, making sure that every time that poor (or not so poor with the expensive bag she carries) girl with the big brown hair and the even taller heels has to juggle between madness and incoherence, he can press a kiss on her forehead to give her clear sight because never has he known of someone as willing as she to _punch_ her way through a set of bad circumstances…

(And Order always _knew _that Chaos had to be a little kinky, the bastard, because he's so sure that he likes getting punched in the face, defenestrated out of school buildings and shoved away from music hall recitals and dates. )

Order thought that would be enough – no harm, no foul, right? _Right_? – Until Chaos, in his typical flimsy and erratic way, began to think that the pianist's lover was just a little too calm, a little too eager to court disorder and commotion in between her marches and flip-offs and snarky comments against administration and government. And by the time Order noticed that his lover was attributing all his _own_ skills to the pretty human with heavy ideas and even heavier punches, he sees that it is too late.

Because it is _Order _(damn it!) that's supposed to tame Chaos, bring to Chaos a sense of peace with his presence. Because it his (!) presence that should soothe the burning anger in Chaos' soul, like that prickly yearning Chaos always has to eat the universe because no one in it will ever understand what it feels to explode inside. No one else, other than Chaos, should feel what it is like every day to lose and to die and loop in a cycle into infinity. And only Order should feel the universe imploding, seeking him in its destruction and rebirth.

Chaos, though, is always confused.

And music, oh music is pretty, but anger, oh anger Chaos understands even better. And someone that can – that can…

(Order doesn't like to think about it.)

Her name is Liz.

(Order doesn't like to talk about _that _either, because she has a name! And what is it to have a name? To have a body and _choice_?)

Order learns this one day when he finds Chaos sitting next to her on the piano, enjoying the music and enjoying her company.

Oh, naïve little Liz, Order thinks. She went and fell in love with a living mess, someone that _needed_ her. Such are the ironies of life that when Chaos finally backed off and fell into the quietude of routine, Liz went and broke the cycle by falling for everything that wasn't her husband – loud and drunk and blonde and green-eyed with too much money and even more time and so many, many women that she might as well give up.

And Chaos, Chaos doesn't _understand_ love. He can't! He doesn't understand how destiny works – how it is possible to want and desire someone that doesn't need to want you back, much less _appreciate _you.

(Order, though, Order understands. Only this keeps him from hating Liz, because she understands, so very, very well!)

Because the more Chaos kicked around the poor little billionaire playboy, the more he lost Liz and the pianist and maybe Order should have felt sorry for Chaos.

Except the billionaire human doesn't need a champion. For that he has Death.

That's going to be a problem, and (damn it, why doesn't anyone ever listen to Order?) when Chaos has a problem, so does the whole _fucking_ universe, including Order.

(Damn it. Order had tried so damn hard to ensure the Eternal wouldn't get involved.

Damn it.)

**Subject #1: Elizabeta**

_**I look up at your house,**_

_**and I can almost hear you shout**_

_**down to me**_

_**where I always used to be,**_

_**and I miss you -**_

_**like the deserts miss the rain.**_

When "Liz" is seven, she runs from her bath and her nanny – hair wet and dripping in a pathway from the bathroom all the way to her mother's vanity table. She wraps her Mickey Mouse towel around her shoulders, arms spread wide as she runs down the expanse of the hallway, barefoot and happy into her mother's back.

Liz is named after her mother. She might as well be a miniaturization of her mother's loveliness, created to be kept in her father's pocket. But when she looks at herself in the mirror, all she sees is red cheeks and pink skin, scrubbed hard with a porous sea sponge. She only sees stringy ringlets of hair knotting together and dipping unevenly into the crook of her chubby neck.

"Baby," her mother chuckles, dropping the thick powdering brush between her fingers to wrap her arms around Liz. She brings Liz onto her lap.

Liz's mother is like a painting: high cheekbones dusted rouge with dimples calling attention to her smile. And when she cranes her long neck to stare at her husband, her whole body just reminds Liz of a marble statue trying to reach the sky.

In the background, Liz's father walks past her, tying a bright purple tie over his charcoal grey collar shirt. He pats her head, stopping to press a soft kiss to her mother's flushed cheeks. And she can hear the dripping tap-tap-tap of water droplets as they hit expensive leather shoes.

"Baby, you're dripping all over Papa's shoes," her Mamma taps at her nose, pressing her closer, never mind that she's wetting the skirts of the expensive ball gown, too. All Liz can do is reach with her fingertips to touch the thick fabric, like the muslin curtains she hides behind during tea time. "Gustav, step back, dear."

But her father simply presses closer, laughing as he pulls a handkerchief from his pocket and bends down to wipe at pools of water in the dip of his shoes. Liz just watches, thumb making the rounds near her mouth.

"There," her Papa says, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "No harm done."

_No harm done._

.

When Liz is nine, she wears blue to her mother's funeral because that was her mother's favorite color.

She stares at the _same_ leather shoes, worn and jagged near the edges, and stays very still as her father combs her hair back into a messy ponytail.

Behind him, Liz's two nannies curl their fingers in and out, sometimes offering to 'do something' with her hair.

Her hair is rebellious. Brown curls everywhere like a mess of thick chocolate pudding left to dry for too long. She wishes taming it was as easy as picking at the crust of a delicious pie. Instead, her hair sucks in everything it can and just extends into forever in twisted ringlets. And _all _she can think is that her mother was so, so very good with her hair. And her mother was a wonderful baker, always making cookies and pies and pudding, oh chocolate pudding.

Liz loved chocolate pudding once. She's made up her mind to hate it, because her father cannot cook.

"I'll learn," her father whispers, fingers cold and gentle as they untangle her hair by bits. His voice breaks unevenly as she scratches her heel with the tip of her shin black shoes. It's like he can read her mind, and she feels exposed. "I'll learn, Liz," he says and she believes him.

_I'll learn. _

.

When Liz is twenty, she goes to college and immediately runs for Student Council President.

She wins and becomes known as the _chaos_ tamer, what with her thin heels and big hair. Her legacy is healthier lunches and more vegetarian options, even though she's by no means immune to the charms of meat. She turns the school inside-out, organizing a March and student 'flip-off' in front of the commons to show administration they don't 'appreciate' money from the debate department being funneled to pay for their subpar football team. She even manages to raise 10,000 dollars for a Children's Hospital in the inner city.

(And there's this boy, right? Because there's always a boy, or a girl, but in Liz's case, it's a boy, and she thinks he's so beautiful with his white smile and tousled black hair and glasses. Oh, she loves his fingers, which isn't by any means supposed to sound as dirty as it does in her head – because he's a pianist…

…and pianists have beautiful, long, slender fingers, right?

_Whatever_. It's romantic.)

By the time she's fumbling down hallways, half asleep on her way to class, love and exhaustion feel very much the same. And they sound the same, too, like the keys on a piano being caressed in the morning when she hauls her books to accounting and on the way to her dorm when the light of the moon outside can't outshine the one in _Clair de Lune_.

She finds a secret in between black and white. It whispers to her in between kisses on her forehead, sonatas lulling her to sleep, dabs under her eyes (careful not to smudge her mascara) when she pretends she's not crying from stress. And it all culminates with glimpses into the future. She's never been clairvoyant, but she can imagine herself standing by a vanity, _a little girl jumping on the bed behind her as she takes a purple tie between her fingers, maybe even pushing thick glasses up higher over the bridge of his nose_.

So when senior year comes around, she finds herself in one knee standing on an auditorium in front of the entire graduating class and this is, _this is_…

"This is…" he can't even speak with the smile in his eyes and she just shrugs, because playing it cool is what Liz knows how to do best: she's the chaos tamer. Liz, always just Liz, the one that kicks chaos in the balls with her heels and insults order with her too-big mouth and too-loud hair and just, just everything.

She wants to give him everything.

"Liz," he laughs, taking her hands and tugging her to sit next to him, "this is…"

"A yes, Roderich?" she chuckles, elbowing him as he starts playing an encore.

The audience did ask, after all. And this is…

_This is. This is._

.

Not the end. Because, what are happy endings?

Liz spends a couple of years happily married and traveling the world, standing behind curtains and clapping until her fingers ache and the red rash on them spreads to the joints on her wrists.

It's great to be young and wandering like gypsies, kissing like teenagers between rehearsals and hiking her skirt up on top of pianos. But _everything _loses its charm eventually, even happy endings. Those _especially_.

Managing her husband reallyloses its charm in between scheduling conflicts and cold dinners.

She just seems to attract chaos, which doesn't make for a very good manager, even if she can fix everything, too.

She even knows Roderich wants to fire her. He just can't bring himself to do it. Because she's his wife – _in the good times and the bad times; in sickness and in health. _And, sure, she can take it; swallow the very sour pill that internalizes one thing: he doesn't need her. She could, but why would she want to?

Maybe that's why when a tall, gorgeous Portuguese man comes to her after a show and says: "Did you put all of this together? – Because if you did, I think there's a job you need to consider."

She doesn't think anything of it, tells him even as he slips a card into her fisted palm— and even then she's already yelling over his head for _someone _to please go clean the spilled wine near the stage before it warps the 18th century wood (and could someone please, please get her husband the strawberries he ordered an hour ago?): "Listen, I'm not looking for a job, Mister."

"That's too bad," he shrugs and inches closer. "He could really use someone like you in his life."

And maybe that's it. Yes, that's it. Because this is, this all Liz wants. She wants to be needed. So she takes it. Takes it so fast, her resignation letter is ripped just from the sheer force of her heels spinning as she rushes out the door, from Vienna to New York.

It's like a calling. Liz knows mantras. She's been in enough protests to remember chanting…

_Someone like you._

.

Liz pushes the door open and yelps, dropping all her binders and files when she feels something metal and cold run into her ankle repeatedly. Looking down, she finds a tiny square metal box with a beeping camera eye focusing on her even as it carries a folder almost its entire size with its clamp hands.

"What the…"

"Take the folder and sit down. Otherwise, it's just going to follow you around, likely to look more mopey and pathetic than even I managed to program it to look. You're supposed to make my job easier, are you not? Last thing I need is _another _depressed—"

"Mr. Kirkland?" she asks, standing straight. She's not sure whether to cross the room to shake his hand first, or just try to take a seat somewhere, or – and the _thing _keeps bumping into her leg, hard enough she knows it's going to leave a bright blue and green bruise. "Stop it," she admonishes, taking the folder with enough strength to almost topple the little bot over on his side.

The poor thing beep-beeps loud and … _sad_?

Liz watches as it slowly titters on its tiny rollerblade wheels, making a beeline for—"Hey, hey, okay, alright, I'm sorry. No need to look so, so heartbroken. See? I'm, I'm looking through your folder. Very, very insightful stuff…"

The camera eye stares at her, zooms in, zooms out. And there's that beep again, this time so cheerful she thinks of the first bell in an ice cream truck. It raises its clamp arms, trucking around in circles before hiding out inside a hole in the wall.

"_Well_."

She looks up and finds Arthur Kirkland staring back at her, hands full of oil splayed on his hips. There's this smirk to his pink lips that makes her wonder what she did that is just so damn amusing—

"Maybe you will fit in after all, Miss…?"

"Uh, Liz will do."

"Liz," he nods, stretching a hand out in invitation. "Do sit."

He wanders away from his workbench, reaching for a nearby towel to dry his hands. "Now, _Liz_, tell me, how good are you with paperwork?"

"Well," she coughs into her hand, "I'm very good at it, Sir."

"Not modest. I like that," Arthur stops by his bar, staring at her from over his shoulder, "and how do you drink your Scotch?"

She's almost tempted to say she doesn't drink. Not during work hours, but already the little bot is staring at her from his humble abode in the hole and there's _something _in the dark of his red lens that warns her that her answer is crucial. So she smiles, wide and happy, "dry."

Arthur laughs and claps his hands, "a woman after my own heart!"

_After my heart. My own heart._

.

"Happy anniversary," Arthur walks into the office one day and throws a box of shoes near her. She blinks, just watching as he rolls up the sleeves of his suit. "What?" he asks when she furrows her brows tightly, barely touching the box, "I thought you said you _liked_ the ones with the Chinese sounding name?"

She shakes her head, chuckling. "_We _don't have an anniversary, Mr. Kirkland."

"Oh, is that not appropriate? I'm always being reminded to watch my language and it just doesn't seem to stay in this bloody mind of mine. You'd think as a genius I'd have more common sense. Fine, how about taking them as congratulations on surviving a full-year with me – _does_ that sound better? Maybe that just makes me sound abusive, but you have taken a lot of abuse. Surely your husband must hate me, either that or think that _working late _is a euphemism for something else. I know my girlfriend does," he takes off his jacket, throwing it on the floor as he makes his way over to his desk.

He flips through his phone disinterestedly, sitting on the edge of the table by a stack of important papers. She's almost afraid to look at the mess.

"And Liz," he stares at her from behind his glasses, "what'd I say just this morning about calling me _Mr. _Kirkland?"

"You don't have to give me a present for working with you, _Arthur,_" she grins cheekily, still opening the top of the box. Her fingers caress the soft leather of the strappy stilettos now in her possession, "but if you were still giving me a present anyway, these," she lifts one of the heels, smiling appreciatively, "_oh_ these would be it. Hello, darlings, where have you been all my life?"

"I _thought_ you'd appreciate them," he laughs, eyes glinting, "the heels are sharp enough that you could really do some damage with them."

"I intend to," she winks, "better watch yourself, Arthur. Do as I say or…"

"Prepare for death by a stiletto up my arse? – Oh, that almost sounds like a sexual harassment suit waiting to happen."

"Well, you said it, not me," she shrugs, slipping her present back into its box.

_Where have you been all my life?_

.

It's in moments like this when she's lounging on the sofa of Arthur's workshop that she thinks of her parents.

There's always this voice in moments like this. It's deep in her gut. She imagines that the voice belongs to a painter because she can almost _see_, almost _touch_ the imagined and, perhaps very real, smile on Arthur's face as he tinkers tirelessly behind another robot's circuit board – little children running around, probably breaking things and getting oil spills on the floor…

And she knows he'd probably just grab a fancy handkerchief to clean it up before pressing a soft kiss on their foreheads and sending them running to her.

It sends this strange warmth inside her belly, like a memory not forgotten, but not fulfilled either.

_But what is the difference between a vision and a daydream anyway?_

**Hospital Visit #1**

"Ma'am, ma'am!" the nurse beelines after Elizabeta, practically sliding down the hallway in an attempt to catch up to her. Her voice breaks unevenly, like a hitch up her pristine white pantyhose, which is there, behind her knee, quite visible to Elizabeta's scrutiny, "Only close family is allowed!"

"And I already told you," Elizabeta waves her off from over her shoulder, heels clicking as dangerously as the flash in her green eyes, "I'm as close family as you're going to get wandering into his room. I'm his P.A."

"Personal assistants are _not _within the list of approved guests," the nurse manages to slip in front of her, blockading the door with her whole body. "I don't doubt you're _close _to Mr. Kirkland," she sneers, emphasizing the word close like a dirty rag being thrown at Elizabeta's face. "But not close enough under hospital procedures."

Elizabeta bites her bottom lip. There's a throbbing above her eye, like a repeated punch in the temple.

"Listen," she breathes slowly through her nose, chest heaving nervously, "I don't care if you think I'm sleeping with him, or _whatever_. For all I know you think his alleged tabloid wife is going to show up to pad his feverish brow. Whatever, okay, what-fucking-ever; he doesn't even like Vegas. Hates it! But since you and half the damn world think you know so damn much about my boss, let me remind you that he has NO family. As in orphaned at eleven, raised by nannies and alone ever since, okay? Like created robots to have friends and has only ever been serious about weaponry. Okay? Nod to show me you understand. Good. So NO ONE other than me is going to walk into this hospital to check on him outside of his publicists and lawyers, which are nowhere near as close to Arthur as I am, you got that? – Because I am closer to a wife than that tabloid bitch you've been reading about during your break will ever be! Because I've had to buy him underwear! And no, I am not going to answer briefs or boxers for you."

The nurse's cheeks flare a bright red.

Smugly, Liz flips a strand of hair over her shoulder. "Now that we've cleared that up, step the fuck aside and let me see him!"

The nurse gulps, "_Ma'am_—"

"And, Christ! Stop calling me ma'am! Do I look anywhere over 29 to you? I wasn't born with these lines on my forehead! He fucking put them there. So don't _ma'am_me! It's not going to work."

"Hospital procedures—"

"What do you want from me? I don't know why my name's not on the list! I already showed you the freaking power of attorney! If he trusts me with his business, you really think he wouldn't trust me to check in on him? – Maybe I should just have someone bring over the living will…"

"_Liz_? Doctor, I think I'm hallucinating again. My P.A. looks like she's about to blow a heel in the hallway, but it can't be because she's on vacation with her husband and I was quite strict about her not coming back regardless of what _stupid_, mad, bloody damned stunt I—"

"Arthur?" she turns, hand pressed tight over her chest at the first sight of her boss wheeling down the hallway in a wheelchair. Behind him there's a doctor and another nurse, both looking very amused at the disheveled state of her hair. She pats at her fringe. "Thank Christ. I was – I was worried and couldn't get back before today—"

"What's going on? I thought you were on vacation with Roderich?" he asks, thick brow arched high. He stares at the nurse next to her for a long time. "Don't tell me another one of my exes tried to come in to murder me while I was under anesthetics again."

"_What_?" Liz thinks her heart has stopped. "Arthur, wait, what?"

"I'm kidding," he laughs, shaking his head. "But seriously, why _is _a nurse blocking my door?"

"Uh," the nurse steps aside, cheeks tinted pink. "Sorry."

"Whatever," Elizabeta shakes her head, practically jumping into his chair with the amount of nerves pushing through her body. "Not important. How are you feeling?"

"I'm fine. Doctor says I can go home in two days tops, though I should probably take a few days off. Apparently my stress levels are too high, which isn't unusual, but I would like to regain full mobility of my hand as fast as possible." He extends out his limp hand, sniffing, "See? All it does is hang, which is unacceptable. Just shameful. I can't even hold a wrench. Under such circumstances, I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to take on even more work, Liz."

"That's fine."

"I know Roderich probably hates me, and you'll probably hate the idea even more; however, the Doctor has recommended that I step down as – wait," he jumped, scanning her face thoroughly. His eyes settled on the tick in her fingers, like a tiny, almost invisible, but manic time-keeper. "_Who _are you?"

"You almost died," she purses her lips together, clicking her heels as she stands to stare him down, "of course you need time off. So it's _fine_."

"You understand what this means, right?" – and he's cringing, just waiting for the sound of Elizabeta cursing him to high-heaven and low-hell, which happens only _too_ often. "It means I'm making you CEO."

Liz finishes lamely, "And Roderich doesn't hate you."

"Did you _hear_ me?"

There's a hint of amusement peppered all over Arthur's voice. It's unsettling because it's a matter of national security whenever Arthur's voice sounds less like a well-oiled machine and more like a guarded gate with peeping holes just for teasing. It all sends Liz scattering for her thoughts. She picks at them carefully. By the time she pieces them together, she's short-circuiting.

"You just said," she gapes her mouth open and close, over and over and over. "You just, I'm, me, I'm C…"

"CEO," he finishes for her, eye twinkling bright and yellow and she thinks that if he was a cat, she'd probably cuddle him all the time.

That alone is a weird thought, but she has always liked cats, and Liz seems to assimilate all the many things that both annoy her and inspire her to Arthur.

There's a _but _hidden somewhere in his words. Liz can already tell. She can tell everything when it comes to Arthur.

"But," – this is not an exception to the rule—"it's only temporary, and you have to get an assistant. I don't want you overworked and grumpy trying to stab me in my sleep with the new razor-thin laptop I bought you."

She blinks, "when did you buy me a new laptop?"

"I sent Ludwig out for it. He was bothering me with all sorts of legal nonsense. I told him to get you a laptop and load it with all the documents and pesky little spreadsheets he loves. He seemed content to take my credit card and organize my life. I decided not to think too hard about what he's indirectly trying to say about me."

"Arthur, I—I can't, I mean, wait, let me rephrase that…"

"Nope," he starts trying to wheel away, and when she slams her hands on either side of the wheel's arms, he simply lets his gaze sweep past her, "Doc, a bit of help? – We're done, Liz. That will be all. You're CEO, I'm on vacation and I'd really love some tea. Think you can make a short trip—"

"No caffeine," she retorts almost instantly, following behind the Doctor and the wheelchair. "And no alcohol, either. I already ordered Toris to get rid of every single bottle of scotch, wine and anything remotely distilled looking in hard glass."

"Even my distilled water?"

"If he can't tell whether it's water or vodka, then yes."

Arthur arched his neck back to beam at his physician, "see, Doc? She's an absolute natural: a true deluge of motherly instincts and managerial genius. Think of her as an FBI agent undercover as a pre-school teacher with a part-time job as an arms dealer. I assure you I'll be in good hands. I wouldn't trust her with my company if _I _didn't believe she could ensure I swallowed a cocktail of pills…"

"Arthur!" she yells behind him, even as she closes the door carefully, "Don't even think we're done with this CEO business. Don't pretend to be asleep! You're not even out of the wheelchair!"

**Newspaper Excerpts #1**

1. [Arthur] Kirkland was released from the hospital earlier today with minor injuries. A press release is expected sometime later today on the stability of Kirkland's health and the recent false accusations of a woman claiming to be his wife. In an act of support, the hospital is abiding by its contractual agreement, asking all media outlets to please empty the vicinity to allow any incoming patients safe entrance. No doctors, nurses or staff have, as of yet, spoken with any media.

2. Doctors are astonished by the speedy recovery of the weapons manufacturing magnate. However, a nurse working on Kirkland's floor confessed that there's fear of lasting physical scarring that might affect Kirkland's mobility…

3. Kirkland Physician reports, "A minor procedure was necessary, but he is, otherwise, in perfect health. The recovery will be slow, but scarring shouldn't prevent him from leading a fulfilling life."

4. The sudden appearance of a woman who claims to be Arthur Kirkland's wife has forced the billionaire's publicist to unofficially comment on his personal love life, starting with a denial of all accusations. "Arthur [Kirkland] is _not _married. He is not expecting any children. All claims will be dealt with legally, starting with DNA proof."

5. Kirkland Wife's family steps forward: "She is certifiably insane and obsessed with him. She even tried to buy his sperm on EBay to carry a child from him to term!"

6. EXTRA! Botched medical procedure leaves Kirkland disfigured! – Kirkland Enterprises to sue! Pictures inside.

7. "We married in Vegas," she says, teary-eyed as she rubs her stomach. "If he's dead, I deserve his assets. For the child, our child. If he's not, well, I am hurt he'd deny knowing me, knowing our baby. I refuse to believe _this_ is Arthur. This is his people. They're keeping us apart."

8. Exclusive! Photos from the secret Kirkland wedding in Vegas and an interview with the WIFE.

Inside: Kirkland wife expecting heir! Why she fears for her life.

**Arthur Talks to Death #1**

"Remember that the doctors said you can't drink."

"Oh, was that part of my prescription? I thought that was more of a general suggestion. You know I'm never very good with suggestions, my dear."

Elizabeta's heels _click-click-click_ behind him, "Arthur, I'm serious. There better not be any alcohol in your apartment."

It reminds him of a metronome. If he wasn't already more than a bit tipsy from the painkillers, he might have tried to invite her inside _again_, but he already knows she'd decline his invitation. Elizabeta is all work and professionalism, unless he starts letting out that side of him that's so very, very _bi_. Then she's all over him. Well, sometimes. More times than not, he catches her frowning, like this deep, disappointed frown that shows all the lines in her forehead.

"Remember you have a meeting with the Secretary of Defense tomorrow, Arthur. So get to bed as soon as you walk in," she reminds him, shuffling him into his apartment.

He nods; his face half a grimace, until his eyes settle on her very noticeable assets.

"Why don't you come in, Liz?" he stumbles a bit, "We could have drinks. As in actual drinks, not the kind we have at the office, which are too fruity to be drinks."

"That's because today they weren't drinks. It was juice. I already told you that the doctors said you can't drink."

He nods, chuckling, "did they say I can't have sex, too?"

She puckers her lips in _that_ way that lets him know he just _fucked up_. In anyone else, he would assume a look like that means he has a shot. But Elizabeta isn't anyone else.

"I'll be sure to ask your doctor bright and early tomorrow if it's of pressing necessity that you know before your two weeks of mandatory bed rest."

"The way your jaw just locked should be nowhere near as captivating as it is, darling," he laughs, leaning against the frame of the door.

Yeah. He's screwed up, again. Arthur does that a lot, apparently, because there are days when Elizabeta's lips look like she's trying to give fish kisses or ducks a run for their money on the beak department.

"Married," she waves her ring finger at him and then breaks into a bright smile, patting him softly on the head. He almost feels like a toddler. "So thanks, but no thanks. Have a good night, Arthur! Don't forget to show up bright and early for the Secretary!"

He blinks, groaning his response as he locks himself inside his apartment. It's probably a good thing she's so efficient. And that he's so scared of her. Otherwise, he might have fired her already.

No, that's not true. He'd never fire her.

Arthur drags his feet as he walks, waving an arm clumsily. It's been a long day, what with his release from the hospital being such a pain in his ever brilliant mind and that insane woman claiming she was his wife from Vegas. Never mind that he hadn't been to Vegas in a year – because he hates Vegas, hates how all the lights everywhere make his hangovers hurt and ache until he has to throw up.

The apartment lights come on with a soft hum and he sighs, breathing in the warmth of halogens and the familiar smell of new wood and new furniture. In the background, he can almost register the silent beeping of the oven's light.

"The hell?" he approaches the oven slowly. He wouldn't have left a pizza cooking in the oven. Not when he wasn't even sure that he'd be coming back to his apartment.

He reaches for the oven mitts nearby and opens the oven slowly, peeking in eagerly once the smell of baked tomatoes and garlic reach his nose. Arthur leans closer, excited to pull the pizza out, even if he can't understand how it got there in the first place. Because, hey! – He's Arthur Fucking Kirkland, famous billionaire inventor, businessman and playboy and stranger things have happened, like that one time he came home to find three super models in his hot tub wading in strawberry gelatin.

So, pizza? Free pizza? It doesn't seem particularly lethal, unless it's poisoned, but that idea settles a bit too late inside his brain. He's already taken the pizza out, cut it into slices, sat on his favorite sofa and taken a big bite by the time he remembers he's not very smart when drunk. He spits the piece out, touching the side of his head as he begins to grow dizzy.

Almost instantly, he grabs for his mobile. His fingers shake as he tries to press the right buttons. He should probably call 9-1-1, not the poison control center's hotline. But he can barely register his own fingertips sliding down the touch screen over the 9 repeatedly. If he's honest with himself, he's not calling anyone in his state.

When the television turns on, he drops the phone and frowns, thinking to himself that he ought to check on the sensors in the apartment. When the channels begin flipping wildly before settling on a romantic comedy, he curses. His house has gone insane. Worst, he hates romantic comedies.

"Hey, hot stuff!"

The voice is soft and warm as it stretches through his ears. There's a very gentle bite, a simple tug at his earlobe.

"The hell?!" he jumps, almost falling off the couch.

A shadowy contour slithers around him slowly. What wraps around him makes Arthur think of the lovechild between a slimy black slug and a translucent scarf, which doesn't appropriately begin to describe how terrifying it actually feels. It's more like a shadowy snake, then, coiling around him rather gently, actually, before plopping hard and heavy on his lap.

"What are you?" Arthur gulps, almost tempted to poke at the shifting shadow now taking the not unfamiliar shape of a human. Or humanoid. Yes, Arthur is more familiar with human _shapes _than humans sometimes and this is definitely not human, but human-like. Still, this is by no means a machine.

Arthur is baffled at the sight of this _not _machine.

"You don't remember me?"

Arthur blinks, "Am I supposed to? – Don't tell me I finally managed to make contact with aliens and I'm bloody sober! If you're an alien, then, I'm very sorry, but I'm going to have to ask you to come back some other time. I need to be properly pissed to make introductions. I know it's probably hard to tell, but my hobbies with a few beers are not the same without them, and I'll have you know I am not fond of aliens when I'm sober. I'm also not fond of people touching me without my permission."

If a pout had a sound, it would probably be the juncture of a sigh and a mumble. Something akin to this: "I'm insulted. I'm not an alien. Aliens are nowhere near as cool as I am."

"Well," Arthur yawns, head lolling a bit as he begins to feel a spin in his head that lulls him to sleep. He speaks in between half-lidded gazes that blur the shadow into the background, "Pardon me for insulting you. I'm sure you're a perfectly lovely shadow. But if you don't mind, I'm not really up for a chat at the moment seeing as—"

"Hey," Arthur starts when he feels a hard slap hit his cheek, "don't die yet!"

"Die?! Oh god," he groans, writhing when he feels a pillow dig deep into his back, "I really was poisoned!"

"Okay, so that wasn't the best way to put it, but at least it woke you up. You're not really going to die…"

"Oh," Arthur feels his body relax against the plush seat holding him up. He drops his head and leans his cheek against cold leather again, already closing his eyes, "that's nice, then. Not to be rude, again, but I truly am exhausted. Must be all those anesthetics I had to take…"

"Nah, it's probably the carbon monoxide I'm using to kill you," the voice chirps and the body bounces on Arthur's lap. "Most painless way to die, babe. Can't say I didn't think of your comfort for your initiation, hot stuff! – Hey, hey, wake up! I want to talk to you. You're funny and witty and all sorts of British things, except you're American, which makes you so much better! I like America, you know? – Oh _come _on! You humans can't be that fragile. I timed it perfectly. I was supposed to have at least another hour with you and I even made you _dinner_!"

"I appreciate it. No one ever makes me dinner at home," Arthur hums contently, eyes already closed as he takes a deep, shallow breath. It leaves his body unsteadily, like he's been ransacked of any and all strength. "You probably should've timed for the synergistic effect a bit better, though."

"Sy-ner-gis-tic effect…? Oh! Damn it. It's always something. At least now you know I'm not an alien, yeah? Because, no offense, but I'd be totally offended if you, like, forgot me: our meeting was brilliant. And superbly timed and I didn't even maim you with the flying shards of glass! Just saying."

"Yes, of course," Arthur repeats a few times. His chest heaves up and down gently. Why does he feel so cold? "Mind draping a blanket over me, demented shadow bent on my sudden and painless demise? Not that I don't appreciate that you used carbon monoxide, but I'm not particularly fond of being cold, either."

"Is that a pet name? 'Cause it's kind of long. Not that I'm complaining. But you can just call me Death. Really, I won't mind," Death says even as he stretches out one his elastic arms to reach for the blanket on the opposite sofa. He drapes it over both of them gently, "Hey, Arthur, does this count as cuddling? Can I count it as cuddling? I'm gonna count it."

"IdunnomaybeI_am_easy…"

"What did you say? You sure you can't wake up to at least finish a slice of pizza? – Arthur? Hey, hey, are you dead?" Death flicks at Arthur's nose. He stares for a long while, sniffing loudly. "Why am I asking you? Of course you are. Fuck.

Guess I'm having dessert alone and it doesn't even get to be a euphemism."

**Arthur Meets Alfred #1: The Elevator**

Arthur stares at the flickering orange light of the elevator. He shuffles his feet and doesn't register that his hands are an unsteady mess of ticks as he shoves them into his pockets. It's an uncomely habit he's been unable to shake ever since the car accident. And he's easily startled by the sound of dragging footsteps behind him. He barely turns, gathering that for the first time ever both he and his neighbor have managed to walk out into the hall at the same time, which is pretty unusual.

He had started to think he lived alone on this half of the floor.

"Good morning," the stranger gives him a familiar wink, like they're old friends sharing some secret from wild college days.

His neighbor is this tall, eager-looking fellow with a very noticeable tan that highlights the pale contrast of the steel blue of his eyes. He's wearing a set of tight jeans and a shirt that continuously rides up to show-off washboard abs hidden beneath. And Arthur, well _Arthur_ doesn't even have to turn. From his peripheral, he scans the expanses of skin within seconds, mapping erogenous zones in bright red with the same precision with which he records numbers and formulas needed for a new invention.

With each flick of the stranger's wrist – even though he has no watch – Arthur feels this strange tension in his shoulders, like the cold chills of familiarity. It's the same feeling he typically gets when he comes across an old lay he'd been working very, very hard to avoid. Only not _quite_ the same.

Not at all.

Then again, for all he knows, he could have slept with his neighbor on a night when he was _really_ drunk, as in blacking out. Arthur blinks, hard. He hides his face, bending into himself. But there's _that _song and he perks up as it rolls around his head, over and over in an unfamiliar array of highs and lows and uneven notes. And then it hits him that the stranger behind him is whistling it.

The familiar ping of metal doors opening alerts them to their close proximity. They scuffle for a moment, questioning who should step in first. When the stranger waves Arthur away, he walks into the elevator.

Arthur's hand is pressed tight against his hip, as if measuring by inches the unwrinkled expanses of the gray dress suit encompassing his body. He leans his back against the nearest wall and pulls out his cell phone – because that's what people do, isn't it? – to deflect human interaction on mornings too early and too hot for either. It's too easy with cold plastic hanging off his pockets, buried deep in his wallet.

There's a flicker of lights overhead, but Arthur ignores that with the same ease with which he dismisses the fact that the door is staying open just a _tad_ too long.

"Are you going to church?" blue eyes flash over to him, and he jumps, unsteady and clumsy and too unaware that his mouth is already moving as he stares at the shine of his dress shoes. "You look real nice," the young man continues in southern accent sprinkled over the otherwise crisp words.

In front of them, the door skitters to a close before opening just an inch again and slamming fully shut.

"Thanks," Arthur remarks, looking away. Though not without first taking in the very visible muscle lines cutting into the stranger's tan skin and hiding behind white cotton, "And no. I guess I'm not really a church kind of guy."

The stranger hums, finally turning fully. He extends out his hand for shake. Arthur looks at it for a long while from beneath long, dark lashes.

"I'd thought about going today, but too many things to do. Name's Alfred F. Jones. I'm your next door neighbor," he smiles big and bright when he feels Arthur's hand slip against his palm – sultry and strong. "Just moved in yesterday. Nice to meet you."

Arthur just gives him a dismissive nod, phone already vibrating in his other hand. He flicks his wrist, looking down at the expensive Cartier Tank Louis watch, and Alfred almost immediately notes the way the shine of the gold whispers obvious 18 karats.

It's an expensive watch, Alfred notes.

It's a long ride down, Arthur thinks.

They're somewhere suspended on floor number fourteen, which is really floor number thirteen, when Alfred seems to mysteriously tug Arthur's hand a bit forward, bringing him just a little closer. There's something snug in the way their breaths are shared, coming at the same time. But Arthur starts anyway, back tensing almost instantly.

His ears perk at the first sign: there's this whip and buzz sound, like wires snapping and coiling around gears, and Arthur's eyes snap up to the ceiling, almost instantly recognizing the vibration of the metal beneath his feet.

He drops his phone to the floor and pushes Alfred back, pressing his own body to the edge of the wall.

This is what people do, isn't it? Maybe not what they do, but what they should. Arthur's never been very good at doing what he _should _do, but dying changes people's priorities. He's willing to change in the minute milliseconds he has now that the elevator is so very obviously making a dump dive to the first floor.

But Alfred seems unfazed, blinking a few times as he takes in Arthur's uneven breathing. The heave of his chest is like watching a little toy boat in a very big pool, and Alfred finds he can still feel the pump of Arthur's blood poking at his hand.

"You alright?" he asks, trying to get close again.

Arthur furrows his brows, hissing, "You don't feel _that?_!"

"Feel what?"

"The way the elevator's velocity had increased? We're going to hit the ground floor in approximately—!"

The lights of the elevator ghost in between dim and dark. Alfred seems to ignore the way the light makes shadows dance over his face. Blue eyes scan the perimeter of the metal box, settling on the power box.

"Are you scared? I can fix it. Just focus on me."

Arthur huffs, rolling his eyes, "w—well, no, of course not. I could fix it, too, actually—you can?"

Alfred shrugs, nodding. He hovers over Arthur, cupping the side of his face. His cheek is warm, like a bullet just released from a gun. Alfred grins, taking in the very soft feel of the skin sliding against his palm. Arthur almost instinctively moves closer, which wouldn't be far from the truth, actually, because technically this is Arthur _dying_. Don't people that are dying always get closer to death? – Right, then. Alfred leans closer, too.

"Yeah, I can fix it, but you need to calm down, hot stuff."

"H—hot stuff?! Now is not the bloody time to get cute, arsehole," Arthur sputters, brows furrowed thick and high, "Are you mad? – This elevator's already on floor seven. We're going to hit the ground pretty soon. All you can do is brace for impact—"

"Calm down; we're not falling," Alfred murmurs, rubbing soft circles around the juncture of Arthur's jaw and cheek, "We're fine. Take a breath. Feel how it's slowing down already? Your heart's pumping too fast. Just breathe in through your nose. I'm not gonna let you die, Arthur. You don't trust me?"

"Well, _no_. I don't know you."

"Sure you do!" Alfred gives him a toothy smile. "We're neighbors!"

Arthur shuffles his feet between them, hand tense as it grips at the metal and leaves a handprint large and visible. It is true that the elevator is slowly returning to a very manageable speed and the lights are slowly coming back. So he tests his newfound stability by grabbing a fistful of his neighbor's shirt. Next to his thigh, his fist rolls tighter. Alfred simply leans into the touch, his bright eyes heavy cobalt.

"See?" Alfred smirks, "You're alright. Probably just a hallucination. You have been through lots of bad things recently."

The elevator transitions into a smooth hover before stopping in the lobby, about a foot off the floor.

When the doors open with a ping, Alfred pushes away smoothly. As Arthur begins to ply his body away from the steel wall, he notices for the first time that one of Alfred's arms had been protectively lingering next to him. He kneels to grab for his cell phone, cheek grazing lightly against the rough material of Alfred's jeans.

Alfred slides to the other side of the elevator, giving Arthur plenty of space to press a hand against his chest and another against his head, as if he's testing that _anything _is real, because the whole experience _is _insane.

Arthur can feel the unsteady weight of his body return to him when he stumbles out of the elevator. He turns to look at Alfred only once.

"We should do drinks sometimes," he waves at Arthur, who simply nods politely, unsure what you say to someone that seems to have saved your life from, from a _hallucination_? From shortness of breath and shaking limbs and…? Arthur's not even sure what psychological disturbance from the accident has burrowed deep inside his mind to make him panic at the first sight of enclosed metallic spaces. But he's glad he wasn't alone. "You know, when you're not having a panic attack."

Was that what it was?

Arthur grabs for his sunglasses and slips them on his face. He walks to the very center of the lobby before he feels his heart drop to his stomach and his knees buck and then he's down – on the floor, like hands fisting parts of the building's very expensive rug. He might as well kiss the ground.

He's not sure he's ever felt something like that, and he's not sure he doesn't like it, which is a very scary thing to admit. Because, well, normal people shouldn't enjoy feeling like they're free-falling inside an elevator for about 10 stories or more, which doesn't really say much about Arthur because he's never been normal anyway. And besides, there's Alfred, handsome, hot, very southern and maybe, well, not innocent Alfred, who tried to hold him through something that _didn't _happen, in a way that didn't make him feel insane.

All Arthur knows is that there's this strange, unsteady beat in his chest and this very familiar warmth between his legs that makes him wonder if he just suffered rug burn on his crotch, or if he just quite _literally _fell in love. Though that's ridiculous because he's Arthur Kirkland –

_You're Arthur Fucking Kirkland. This is just the shock. Yes, just the shock. Be logical, lad. You're in shock. Love? Ridiculous._

But the more he tries to stand, the more he feels cool fingers rubbing circles against his cheek, and then against his thighs and right at the juncture of his hip, where he _still_ has that weird scar, like someone bit him hard with sharp teeth. And there's _still_ Alfred, just watching him, quite amused as he palms the elevator, trying to get the bended metal back into shape.

Wait, wait, is he having another hallucination?

_Absolutely stupid. _

Here's Arthur, though, finding it fully endearing.

Alfred simply kicks his heel against the elevator, giving Arthur a wink before he mouths, "Forgot something upstairs," and is gone.

**This is Gilbert and that's Mattie**

Gilbert feels awkward in the sun. For one, he can't actually see. For two, his skin itches like a _bitch_, and that's not directed at anyone, except the sun. The sun's a _bitch_, making him hurt and itch all over.

Human bodies just feel weird.

They're all rubbery and _shit_. As in the quality is _shit_. He comes to terms with this at the same time he is informed that human bodies are breakable and, like, what loser would even want a body that has brittle, hard insides and mushy things that go thump-thump with red stuff? Not that there's anything wrong with red. He likes the color red.

"Here," Matt holds an umbrella over his head, handing Gilbert sunglasses with his free hand. "Put those on and hold the handle straight so you don't bop me in the head while I try to get some sun block on you."

"Sun block?" Gilbert cheers up, envisioning some gun that they'll shoot at the sun and—and then he feels Matt's fingers, cold and wet sliding down his nose with something thick and white. "Hey, hey, what is that?"

"Sun block," Matt rolls his eyes, admiring his work on Gilbert's face before adding another dot on the tip of his nose. "There."

"I'm still itchy," Gilbert complains, picking at the bits of left over lotion on his cheeks. "Why is someone as awesome as me feeling itchy – hey, what's that little yellow thing over there jumping around in that cage? It's cute! I bet it's deadly, too…"

"Don't just run off!"

"Relax! I'm just going to say hello to the tiny cute deadly thing."

"It's not deadly – damn it, Gilbert, come back here! I don't have time to look at baby chicks with you…!"


End file.
